Dispatch from the Edge of the Universe

The first time

I tell someone I’ve thought about

ending it

is right after the first time

someone tells me they’ve thought about

ending it

and here I thought I was

the only one thinking that,

the only one feeling that,

so far flung, like Pluto at the edge of the universe

still thinking it is something important,

while back here on earth we lop off Ps,

end everything with Neptune,

an ice giant swallowing up cold drowned gods,

a big brotherly shadow to spin in.

I say: Pluto could have been our underworld,

could have been our true home,

why can’t sad people have nice things?

They say: Nah, it’s still out there, three billion miles away,

colder than ever, spinning five moons to our one,

who says that’s not significant?

Dwarf planet or not, Pluto’s still bad,

all that nitrogen and methane

trapped in a glacier bigger than Texas.

Listen, those of us who live at the edge know what the rest don’t:

How to brave the cold.

How to brave the dark.

How to keep turning toward the sun.

How to let its rays reach you.

How to let the ice melt.

How to let the light in.

The first time

I tell someone I’ve thought about

ending it

is right after the first time

someone tells me they’ve thought about

ending it

and here we are suddenly feeling hopeful.